Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. All songs and song lyrics belong to their respective owners, not to me. I own nothing except the story.

A/N: This story started out as a one-shot, but uou guys liked it so much that I just had to continue it.

***** UPDATE 4/17/11 ***** Due to the fact that I don't want to get this story pulled, I've changed the names of the celebrities mentioned in this story, since I poke fun at them and all. Hopefully you can still figure out who I'm talking about when you read about them. Otherwise, I don't know if someone would complain...

Alright…well, sit back, relax and enjoy the show…

Link to the Banner and story pics: https:/ queenbeee78 . blogspot . com (remove the spaces)

Chapter song:

"The Ghost Inside" – Broken Bells

I Was Broken

Chapter 1 - Evil Pixies and Bloody freakin' Mary

The beat of the song The Ghost Inside by Broken Bells blared in my ears as I closed my eyes and bobbed my head to the music, only to be rudely disturbed by having the buds ripped out of my ears. I opened my eyes to find Alice bouncing from one foot to the other, and clutching some papers to her chest.

"You scared the shit out of me, you know," I snapped at her.

"I know Bells and I'm sorry, but I have an assignment for you. A big one."

My God, she looked like she was about to piss her pants, she was so excited.

"Okay…who is it? Wait, lemme guess…The Shins? Gorillaz? Ooooh….The Strokes?"

She squealed in delight as she turned a stack of large papers in her hands - revealing a large black and white photo to me.

"WHAT? HIM? Huh-hoooo no. No fucking way, Ali. I'm not taking that assignment, so you can just forget it!" I glared at her as she stood over my desk. I had just finished writing my piece on the band Muse before she came skipping her happy little pixie ass into my tiny office.

Pffft. Edward Masen. Was she trying to kill me?

"But, Bella…" she whined. "I thought you liked the guy."

"I like his music, yeah, but I'm NOT going to be the one to interview him." Crossing my arms over my chest, I rolled my chair back from the desk and pursed my lips like a petulant child.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why? Are you afraid you'll have a repeat of the Josh Myer fiasco?"

Bitch. She would have to bring that up. Why did I ever even tell her about that?

Josh Myer was my first real assignment, and I had no idea what I was getting myself into at the time. "Wet behind the ears" I guess you could say. He was a famous guitarist, and sexy as all hell. I had no idea the guy was going to give me only half an interview (A bull-shit interview at that) while feeding me endless cocktails until I wound up on the black leather couch of his hotel room, shirt up to my neck and dangerously close to losing my panties.

Thank God, I came to my fucking senses and pushed him off of me, only to stumble out of his hotel room and bump right into a certain well-known, blonde actress he had been reported to be dating and soooo in love with.

What a fucking pig.

The whole time I was interviewing him, he kept trying to tell me how he was just a misunderstood guy, and he didn't understand why Hollywood tabloids had pegged him as a womanizer…blah, blah, fucking blah… I should've seen it from the start, but I was too busy staring at his gorgeous face and tattoos up his arm, and he was too busy trying to get me wasted and naked.

But that was a year ago, right after my nasty break-up with Riley - another cheating bastard - and I'd put on my big girl panties since then and wised up. My father didn't raise me to be some sheltered, fragile little thing. He raised me to be a tough, take-no-bullshit woman. And that is exactly why I've come up so fast here at Rolling Stone Magazine.

I took the Josh Myer incident and learned from it. And now my editor and best friend, Alice, was trying to kill me all over again. She knew that Edward Masen was my fan girl crush since college, and she knew this would be a tough assignment for me to take on.

"Ugh, Alice…" I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms. "Seriously, the guy is an even bigger dickhead than Myer." I sighed, "Why don't you just give it to Lauren?"

That dumb slut would be putty in Masen's hands for sure. Maybe they could share herpes cream. Heh heh.

"Why in the hell would I do that?" She looked at me as if I had three eyes and continued her tirade. "She's not half as talented a writer as you are, and she doesn't know his music like you do. I only give her the pop music stuff like Christina Archulera and the like. You know that."

Ugh. Christina Archulera. I could interview her if I ever had to, but if I had to listen to her music to do so, well, let's just say I'd rather pour acid into my ears.

I rolled my chair forward toward the desk and rested my folded arms across the top of it.

"I'm not doing it, Alice. Forget it."

She threw a stack of photos of the sexy Adonis on my desk and folded her arms as well. "Look," she insisted, "I pulled a butt-load of strings to get you this interview!"

"I never asked you to!"

"Would you just listen to me for once? You have to take this interview. I just know this is gonna lead to big things, Bella. And besides, how do you know he's really a jerk? Maybe he's a nice guy who's been painted in the wrong light."

I snorted, "Yeah, right. Like I haven't heard that gem before." I shook my head at the memory of that damned black leather couch that once again flooded my brain. "It doesn't matter anyway because I'm not doing it. End of story."

"Bella! Do you want to look back on this when you're eighty and tell your grandchildren that you had a chance to meet Edward Masen and possibly bang him, and you passed it up because you were afraid?"

At that, a deep laugh erupted from my mouth. "Alice, did you just say BANG him?" My eyes were wide with shock and both eyebrows were almost at my hairline.

"Ugh, dammit Bella! Look at his eyes!" She pointed to a black and white photo of him, looking off into the distance, and as soon as I looked at his eyes, I knew I was in deep trouble. "There has to be more behind those eyes than just some guitar strumming, man-whore," she continued. "I just know it."

This was bad. Really, really bad, because not to mention his fucking beautiful, sad eyes, I was already looking at his stubble-lined jaw and fantasizing about licking it. I had to turn my head away from the photo so I could gather my wits from out of my crotch.

Maybe if I gave Alice the puppy dog eyes and begged her…

"Ali, pleeeeeeease? Please don't make me do this…" I whined.

"Oh, don't even try that puppy-dog crap with me. I've already booked your flight to L.A. and set you up at the Chateau Marmont. Your flight leaves at noon so you'd better go home and pack."

Man, she could be one persistent little bitch sometimes.

"Noon when? Tomorrow?"

"Nope. Today."

"WHAT? Alice, its 9:30 now! Are you fucking crazy?"

"Well, I guess you'd better move your ass then, yes?" she glared at me.

I stood up from my chair and leaned over the desk until the evil midget and I were nose to nose.

"I'm. NOT. Going."

Instead of responding, she simply smirked at me.

X-X-X

Two hours and two Bloody Marys later, I was boarding a flight from New York to Los Angeles, on a chilly February day. I didn't have time to change out of my work attire, thanks to Alice, so I was boarding the plane in black leggings and a long-sleeved, burgundy, v-neck sweater and black, suede ankle boots. As soon as I'd plunked down in my seat, I ordered another drink.

Well at least she'd had the decency to book me in first class. Don't get me wrong, because I wouldn't mind riding coach. I'm not spoiled. But for the sake of the other passengers, it was better for me to have my own large seat in which to freak-the-fuck-out.

I absolutely despised flying.

What I wouldn't give for a tranquilizer right now…Okay, stop it. It's not that bad…oh yes it is!

As I white-knuckled the armrest of my seat during take-off, I started to mentally prepare my list of questions for Mr. Fuck-head Masen. It was the only thing I could do in my terrified state. This was the only part of my job that I hated. Well, flying and interviewing sleezy, bastard musicians.

Maybe I should find a new occupation.

By the time I'd had my fourth Bloody Mary, we were half-way through the six hour flight and I was finally starting to feel less anxious. Or maybe I was just drunk. Who knew.

I'd just fallen asleep (or so I thought) when the flight attendant came to tell me that we would be landing soon, and to put my seatbelt back on. She hinted at me to wipe the drool from my mouth, before she walked away. I looked up to see a blonde, short-haired, older gentleman, smirking at me from across the isle. He'd obviously seen my drool.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Are you alright, Miss?" He was in row across from me, in the seat closer to the isle, while I was in my usual window seat.

I wiped the drool from my chin and fixed my After-sleep-fro. "Um, yeah, I'm fine. I guess I just had too many cocktails."

"Yes, you have to be careful with those," he said with pity in his voice and eyes. It suddenly dawned on me that I must look like some kind of raging alcoholic or something.

"Oh," I stuttered, "I don't normally drink like that…I had to do something for my nerves or they would most likely throw me off the plane."

Trust me, it had happened before. This guy had no idea what kind of potential drama the passengers had avoided by letting me have my liquid blanky.

"Ah, I see," he smiled. He seemed like a cool guy and kind of reminded me of my dad in a way, if my dad was talkative, that is.

"So are you going to L.A. on business, Mr…"

"Cullen, Carlisle Cullen." He leaned over to shake my hand, and I obliged.

"Isabella Swan."

His eyebrows perked up, "The Isabella Swan from Rolling Stone Magazine? That Isabella Swan?"

"You know my work?" I asked just before the plane made a strange sound. "Oh shit…" I whimpered as the planed lurched downward in descent, just about losing my lunch and my Marys. As I hunched down in my seat and clenched my eyes and my ass cheeks together, holding my breath, I heard someone sit down in the seat next to me. When I opened my eyes, the blonde man named Carlisle was sitting next to me, patting my back, and looking at me worriedly, the same way as my own father would. Still, I didn't feel comforted.

"Breathe through your nose, slowly, and out through your mouth," he reassuringly instructed me.

I did as he said, but it was no use. This nightmare wouldn't be over until we were safely on the ground. And so for the next fifteen minutes or so, I stayed in my butt-clenched-eyes-squeezed-shut-frozen position, until my own personal hell was finally over. The wheels hit the tarmac below us, and I let out a huge breath of relief.

"Sorry about that," I groaned.

How fucking embarrassing. This poor guy probably thought I was a total nut-job.

"It's no problem, Miss Swan. My wife, Esme, has the exact same issue with flying," he smiled.

I nodded and started to unbuckle my seatbelt and gather my things. When the plane finally reached the gate, he started back to his original seat, picking up his briefcase from the overhead compartment.

"Well, it was nice meeting you Mr. Cullen. Thanks for your… uh…help, and have a nice time in L.A," I smiled, as I turned my BlackBerry back on.

"You too, Miss Swan. And good luck with your interview," he smirked.

Interview? When had I mentioned my interview? Jesus, I really need to not drink on flights. Oh, fuck… I must have talked in my sleep again. What the hell did I say this time? Oh well, it's not like I'll ever see this guy ever again. Who cares.

"Um…thanks," I mumbled as I made my way off the plane. I could've sworn I'd heard him snickering behind me, but it was probably just my imagination.

X-X-X

A/N: Yes I know the first chapter is kind of short. I felt it was the best place to start splitting up the one-shot. But, there's more so keep going...